


Limits

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Series: Restored [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-05-07
Updated: 1998-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Prequel to "Restored".</i> When Jim's senses overload, Blair and Simon have to save him from himself - if they can survive!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limits

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sentinel fanfic, originally zine-published (though which zine I'm afraid I've forgotten!); posted online October, 2009.

Blair Sandburg returned to the communal coffee pot for the eleventh time that day. It wasn't even one o'clock in the afternoon. And he didn't even care for coffee, not if tea was an option. He had had a cup that morning, but only because he had been up past four the night before and wouldn't have been able to stay awake without it.

No, the coffee was for the various and sundry cops around the station. Who consumed coffee in measurements of fifty pound bags a day. They preferred Dunkin' Donuts', but when stuck at the office they made do with what was there.

Blair was almost positive that he hadn't gotten a masters in Anthropology to play waiter for a batch of dedicated police officers with nothing to do but paperwork. Oh yeah. He was doing this labor for the doctorate. If ever he wanted to complete his dissertation on the Sentinel phenomenon he had to make complete observations of Detective James Ellison.

And if Blair wanted to make complete observations he had to stay around the station. And if he wanted to stay around the station he had to get along with the men and women who worked there.

Which meant that on the one day of the year that absolutely _nothing_ was happening in Cascade and the entire police force was grumpily resigning themselves to the backlog of paperwork, he had to fetch coffee. At least a couple of cups.

He handed the mug over to Lt. Peters. "Thanks, Blair," she said with a smile. It was a very nice and rather pretty smile; returning it, Blair admitted to himself that this wasn't all that bad.

"Sandburg!" Then again...

Blair maneuvered around the desks to that of his partner. "Yeah, Jim?"

"Do you remember what the hell we were doing last November 21st? And why I'd have requisitioned two model 17 Glocks? And why the signature on the form doesn't even vaguely resemble mine? And can you make a copy of these?" Jim Ellison tossed him a couple of pink pages stapled together and then leaned back, massaging his temples. "And do you have an aspirin on you?"

Blair grabbed the papers and compulsively felt his pockets. "Nope, sorry. Why, you have a headache?"

Jim caught the note of mixed worry and curiosity in his partner's voice and glanced up at him. "Yes, Chief. A headache. Like people get when they've been trying to read blurred print half a millimeter tall."

"Sure, as if _you'd_ need reading glasses, man," Blair shot back. "You're probably the only one here without that problem."

"Well, Sandburg, if it's not the papers, then it's those damn tests last night. I mean this morning."

Blair fidgeted. "Sorry about that, but come on, we couldn't just stop in the middle. And I got some really neat data—"

"Great." Jim sounded slightly less than ecstatic.

"This is science, man," Blair continued, heedless of whether his partner shared his sentiments. "I mean, if physiologists heard about last night they'd just be blown away. The connection between sensory stimulation and the fight or flight response, not to mention increased focus on multiple senses without the zone-out—I know of a couple of neurologists who'd kill to get their hands on this data. If I get this paper done—"

"What do you mean, 'if'?"

Blair blinked. "When, I mean." He shrugged. "Whenever. I need more research before I can start writing..." At this point it was looking like "if" more than "when". If most of his time was spent like the testing last night, merely gathering data, then he'd be at least half done.

But last night was the exception, not the rule. Jim didn't have much time to waste in the laboratory pressing buttons and answering questions. He was a full-time officer of the law, protecting the honest citizens of Cascade.

And Blair couldn't and wouldn't stop him. What else was a Sentinel for, but to guard and help people? Research was important, but he'd never equate it with human lives.

He felt useless around the station oftentimes. Science, interesting as it may be, became trivial in light of police work. Jim pushed himself to his limits to "protect and serve" and Blair tagged along taking notes for his doctoral dissertation. Fetching coffee occasionally.

That was on a good day. On a bad day he would be shot at or kidnapped by heroin dealers or abducted by a complete psychopath or merely have to watch his partner and friend throw himself directly in the path of danger again and again. Observing events that were interesting on paper but harrowing to actually watch.

"Hey, Chief, don't _you_ start zoning out on _me_." Jim's voice snapped Blair back into real time.

He shook his head. "Sorry, man. I'll copy this and check if Simon has Tylenol or something." He got to work before he could slip into thinking again. That never seemed to do much good. Not unless he resolved to actually do something about it...

On the way to the captain's office he got two more requests for coffee. Captain Banks had Advil, which he gave to Blair with a sigh. "My last two tablets. Today I've been handing them out like Halloween candy. They can handle car theft, rape, burglary, homicide, even jaywalking, but give a cop a form to fill out..."

The phone on his desk rang loudly. He snatched it up, listened intently, and responded. Blair nearly thought he was smiling when he replaced the receiver.

"Get back to your partner, you'll be on this one," Banks told him, and Blair moved. The captain was right on his tail, announcing to the bullpen just as he reached Jim's desk, "There's a robbery in progress at the Union National Bank downtown."

Blair felt almost sorry for the criminals in question, as he observed half the Cascade PD mobilize.

There were two cruisers already at the scene when they arrived, and more behind them. As they pulled up a nondescript grey van pulled out in a hurry, and the two police cars pursued, sirens screaming. Jim switched on his own light, but rather than follow the others he spun the truck around and headed down a side street.

"Whoa, where we going?" Blair demanded.

"If these are pros they won't make their getaway so obvious." He grabbed the radio and put in a quick call for back-up, then pointed. "There we go." In an alley behind the bank a blue Chevrolet parked with its engine idling. Right before they reached it the auto shot out of its hiding place.

Ignoring the sirens it hurtled down the street, dodging and occasionally nicking other vehicles. Ellison put the pedal to the metal and gave chase, finally cutting down another side street to emerge in front of the Chevy, barring its way.

The getaway vehicle attempted a u-turn but found itself facing two cruisers. The two passengers made a last-ditch effort to escape on foot, but neither got more than fifty feet before they were tackled by a cop. The driver didn't even attempt to flee, waiting resignedly for Jim to yank him out of the car and cuff him.

"Hoo-boy! Now _that_ was exciting!" Blair crowed on the way back to the scene of the crime. "How'd you know they'd be back there? Did you hear the engine or something?"

"Cop instinct, Chief, no sensing involved." That kept his partner quiet for the few minutes it took to get back to the bank. As they got out of the car Blair looked up and down at the marble columns and grinned.

"They weren't too smart robbers," he remarked, "not only taking on the whole police force but trying to rob here. They just installed that new security system—don't even have to press a button to sound the alarm."

"And how come you know this? One of your dates installed it or something?"

Blair shrugged. "Actually she's just a teller."

"If she was working with these guys—" They no sooner stepped through the glass doors into the foyer when Jim winced, pressing his hands against his squinted eyes.

"Man, what is it?" Blair demanded worriedly.

"Nothing." Just the headache about quadrupling in intensity. He blinked, forced himself to straighten up.

"Maybe we should go outside, if something here—"

"I said, it's nothing. The Advil should be kicking in any time now. We need the details of the crime while they're fresh."

They proceeded inside. The bank manager, a tall thin woman who bore an amazing resemblance to a birch tree, darted over to them. "Yes? May I—"

"Detective Ellison," Jim introduced himself, wielding his badge. "We need to ask you about the robbery."

"Yes, yes, of course, right away." Not a birch; more like a quaking aspen. "This is unbelievable," she fluttered, "Our new security went online yesterday, to have it tested today—"

"Did the system—" Jim rubbed his forehead with the palms of his hands and tried again, "Did the system work like it was supposed to?"

"Oh yes, we didn't press a single button, you simply showed up a few moments after those criminals..." He tried to follow what she was saying, but it was becoming hard enough just to follow her. Every slam of her heel against the tile floor resonated in his ear drums and vibrated against his feet, echoing over the thuds of other people walking around him, a thunderstorm of footsteps.

Blair, always fine-tuned to his Sentinel, brought them to a halt and hushed the manager. "Jim?" he asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

"My head," Jim explained, "it's..." It wasn't exactly a headache anymore, but something equally painful.

"Your senses?" Blair pushed, ignoring the manager's confused twittering.

"Hey, come look at this, detective!" hollered a uniformed officer over with the tellers.

At the shout Jim gasped and flinched. "Hearing too much?" Blair whispered, lowering his voice in concession to the heightened sense.

Jim nodded, automatically bringing his hands to his ears. Now that he was concentrating on it, however unintentionally, it was worse than ever. He could have literally heard a pin drop, though it would be tricky to make out over the unbearable racket inside the bank, echoing, pounding, rattling, rustling...

His partner's voice cut over the rest of noise, soft-spoken but enormously loud to his too-sensitive hearing. "Easy there, Jim, block it out, you can do it, just try to ignore everything, it's not too loud in here, it's pretty quiet actually." The words were calm, assured, almost hypnotic in their level gravity. They might have worked, had it been more peaceful, if the sounds were less overwhelming.

The voices alone, "Is something wrong?" "Detective, you need to look at this," "I was so scared," "Can you believe it? Here?" "Cops everywhere now," a cacophonous orchestra of noise, all playing to him. And under it all, he could nearly make out a single note, a constant pitch calling siren-like to him alone—

Blair was speaking again, "Jim, I want you to open your eyes and look at me, I want you to focus on my hand, just look at it, divert your sense."

He tried to obey his Guide, but when he cracked his eyelids a shaft of light plunged through to stab into his brain, sharper than an arrow. Clapping his hands over eyes with a cry of pain he tried to push away the glowing afterimages. Someone took him by the arms, their skin rough and the pressure felt hard enough to bruise, and a voice echoed in his ears, too loudly for him to make out individual words.

Wrenching away he forced his eyes open, and a hundred thousand colors and moving shapes assaulted his vision, rushing toward him, too many for his mind to find any sort of order in them. An agony of chaos surrounded him, and Jim Ellison had only a brief moment of terror before he drowned in it.

 

* * *

 

 

Blair felt something pretty close to terror himself, as for no apparent reason his partner hunched over, clutching his head as if trying hold it on. He tried to speak calmly, keep his voice low and soothing, hopefully causing as little pain as possible but he had to communicate with him. And then Jim backed away, snapping open eyes with pupils so far dilated the blue all but vanished behind the black, and swayed as if he were about to fall over.

Except instead he pelted for the doors, actually threw himself through the glass and dove down the steps, hitting the street sprinting.

Blair dodged the shocked manager and raced outside, his boots crunching on the shattered plate glass. "Get him!" he shouted to the uniformed officers, who only gaped. Desperately he tried himself but there was no way in hell he could run fast enough to catch up—

An engine roared to life and a cruiser screeched to his side. "Get in," Captain Banks commanded, and Blair scrambled into the passenger seat. Simon started accelerating before he had slammed the door.

At the end of the block Jim turned the corner. They arrived at it themselves in time to see him duck down an alley. Blair sprang from the car the moment they reached the spot, soon enough to see Jim vault an eight foot chain-link fence and disappear down a side street.

"We have to go around!" Blair gasped, hurriedly returning to the cruiser.

"Easy, Sandburg, remember to breathe," the captain requested, speeding down the block. "Where's he going?"

"No idea." Blair tried to catch his breath. "I don't even know what happened!"'

Another cruiser passed them by and the radio crackled. "Okay, I got it," Simon answered. "They missed him."

"Dammit!" Blair slammed his fist into the dashboard and regretted it, but didn't have time to cater to his bruised knuckles. "We have to search, he's right around here, he can't be too hard to find."

"Normally I'd agree," Banks replied, "but this is Jim—if he wants to run or hide we aren't going to have a hell of a lot of luck stopping him."

"Simon, we gotta find him, in the state he's in..."

"What state _is_ that, exactly?" the captain demanded.

Blair slumped back in the seat. "I don't know. Complete sensory overload, maybe."

Simon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "That doesn't sound good."

"It's not." Blair shrugged helplessly. "That's just a guess, even. I'm not sure of anything."

"What exactly happened?"

Blair pushed back his hair. "When we first entered the bank Jim reacted to something, but he didn't know what, said it was a headache. Then he just sort of—broke down. Not precisely like zoning out, I thought for some reason that his hearing was supra-sensitized but now I think that all his senses were heightened. And he couldn't block them out for some reason." He brought his fist down on his more pliant knee. "I tried to help him but I couldn't get through, and I didn't see how bad it was..."

"You still were the fastest to respond," the captain said kindly. "Let's get back to the bank, try to figure out what might have set this off or where Jim might be heading. I'm putting out an APB on him, so he will be found."

There was a small convention of officers inside the bank, trying to investigate and calm the rattled employees and patrons. The cops were antsy themselves. "What the hell just happened?" they demanded of their captain.

"We're finding out." Banks chaperoned Blair through the crowd. "So, what are we looking for?"

"I wish I knew." What he really wished was that Jim was here to help them find it, though of course if Jim was here they wouldn't have anything to find. Blair hadn't the faintest idea what he was investigating. He wondered if anthropologists had some kind of intuition to parallel Cop Instinct. Maybe Guide Instinct? Certainly he needed some kind of assistance...

"I wanted Detective Ellison to look at this," he heard an officer say, and pushed his way over to the speaker.

"What did you want him to see?" he asked.

The cop eyed him askance for a second and shrugged. "This device," he responded. "Ellison's up on safe-cracking, I thought he'd be interested in what they were using to break in."

"Why didn't the robbers just force an employee to open it?" Blair heard himself ask, despite the lack of connection with his own investigation. Curiosity had always been his strong suit.

"It can take longer to convince one of them than to do it themselves, plus some safes are made to seal if they're handled a certain way. A brave employee just might make the main haul unreachable."

"So they do it themselves." Blair regarded the device. It resembled a transistor radio, a small black box with buttons, dials, and a digital display. "What is this?"

The cop fiddled with one of the dials and squinted at the display. "They were in such a hurry to beat it that they left it behind, still running, it looks like. Ultrasonic equipment, new-fangled pick for a new-fangled lock. I was hoping Detective Ellison could tell me more about how it worked."

"Ultrasonic?" Blair repeated cautiously.

"The display says 40 kilohertz, anyway."

"That's beyond human hearing range," he agreed. Beyond most humans, anyway. At the edge of a Sentinel's... "You said it's still on?"

"I think so, not like we could hear it. It probably works like sonar to find the lock's combination, we'll take it to an expert to get more." The cop looked at him. "Want what we learn?"

"Yeah, sure," Blair nodded distractedly. Piece of the puzzle, maybe. High-pitched sounds could cause headaches, if Jim had barely been picking it up it could have pained him without him knowing what it was.

Possibly his sense of hearing might have tried to identify the irritant by jacking up his sensitivity to sound...all conjecture, but there was pitifully little evidence to deduce anything from.

None of that would do any good as it was until they found Jim. Blair tried to hope that the unnatural hyper-sensitivity would subside on its own, but he had doubts. Jim was dangerous at the moment, to himself and even to others—he wouldn't hurt people under normal conditions, but this was anything but normal, and Blair had observed his partner under stress before. This didn't bode well, not at all.

Especially this kind of stress, which would be far beyond anyone's capacity to endure. Senses heightened to their extreme for an extended period of time, a constant, unending barrage of painful stimulation? He purposely avoided theorizing about possible permanent psychological effects. Maybe Jim had chosen the right route after all—snapping immediately might have been preferable to a slow break-down. And there must be a way to fix it.

There had to be.

"Got anything, Sandburg?" The captain tapped Blair on the shoulder, causing him to jump to attention.

"Sort of." He indicated the device. "That's emitting an ultrasonic tone. It might have set Jim off. Or helped to, anyway."

"Hmm. If you say so." Simon touched his fingers to the black box. "More important now is finding him. Any insight on where to look?"

Blair frowned, trying to think like, well, a mad Sentinel. Where would he go, if his senses were on constant overdrive, where would he run? Not home, if he even could remember it, it would be more basic... "Someplace safe, someplace quiet. Without people."

"Inside, alone?"

"Maybe. Someplace without stimulation. He's sensing _everything_," Blair reminded Simon. "So possibly he'd head somewhere where there's less to sense."

The captain nodded. "Sounds logical. I'll send people to nearby abandoned buildings, warehouses, deserted places like that."

"Okay. If they find him..." Blair hesitated.

"We'll deal with that when it happens, depending on his mood," Banks said. "You figure out what went wrong." He headed to the car radio outside to broadcast the suggestion. Blair turned back to the lockpick device with a determined frown, detective or not trying his damnedest to piece together the mystery.

 

* * *

 

 

Only a mile away from them he crouched in the shadows of two buildings, feeling his pulse hammer against his fingers where they closed over his wrist. Adrenaline crackled in his blood, screaming at him to run, to keep running and never stop, but a dim internal purpose demanded a destination.

His thoughts were as fragmented as the noisy, angry brilliance surrounding him, constant distractions affording him no chance to ponder his actions or create a chain of logic. With reason so denied, instinct took control, finding the signals of danger in every sound, sight, smell, touch. Run, hide, far away, get far away, the hunter stalking, the prey fleeing to survive. Survival, always and ever survival, the purpose is to live and all else is secondary to that.

Safety, find safety somewhere, seclusion, hiding out of sight, keep silent, keep still and low and dark when you're not running. Seek out a place which can't be found, the best hiding spot, invisible from all senses. Not here, away from here, fewer people, fewer noises, fewer scents, less of all meant greater safety. Louder steps over the steady barrage on the street, a danger passing close by. He pressed deeper into the shadows.

"Hey, is someone there?" Echoing voice too close, and he strove to keep motionless, not even putting his hands on his ears to block out the thunder. But the flash brighter than daylight piercing the shadows made him moan, forced his eyes shut.

"Oh my god—Detective Ellison! Jim!" Drop in decibel as the silhouetted face turned away, "Tell them we've found him," and then an increase again as it turned back. "Stay calm, sir," in a monotone pitch, easier to ignore as he concentrated on the figure taking one slow step forward. Any closer would be dangerous, warned his instincts, the range for attacking is one step nearer. "Just stay calm, we'll get you out of here." One hand reached lower, toward the blinding reflections of metal at the belt. "Don't move."

He took a step.

No choice, too dangerous, without conscious decision he erupted from his crouch, slamming the man into the rough brick wall of the building around them. One danger temporarily neutralized, but another one presented itself, in a second silhouette at the alley's mouth. "Stop, Detective!"

Rustle of stiff fabric as the woman's arm moved, but he was already responding, and their guns clicked simultaneously as they were drawn and aimed. She couldn't move faster than him, she couldn't see how prepared he was, and when she shouted "Freeze!" his finger had already tightened on the trigger.

The sound of the shot rang through him, momentarily providing respite in deafness before his ears recovered, ringing bell-like over the ceaseless chaos of sound around him. Not pausing to observe what damage he had caused he fled from them, heading for a safer, more secluded location.

All right, Blair, think, he told himself. He might be looking at the catalyst, but what had been catalyzed? Running his fingers over the sleek black box he pondered its function. Ultrasonic stimulation leading to heightened senses across the board, sort of like what they had been working on last night—

Good god, he had nearly forgotten the tests. "Concentrate now, Jim, try to listen and watch and tell me if this feels hot or cold," attempting to raise sensitivity on all levels, just exactly what had happened here.

Disregarding the milling officers he followed the captain's path out of the bank to the cruiser on the street. "Simon, I think I got it, it was the..."

Banks replaced the radio and turned to face Blair, his expression dark enough to stop the younger man in his tracks. "That was Lieutenant Peters. She and her partner found Jim."

"Great—"

But the captain was shaking his head. "They didn't get him. He left her partner with a minor concussion and he shot at Peters."

"Jim _shot_ her?" Blair demanded, disbelieving.

"The only reason he didn't hit her is because she got out of the way fast enough," Simon verified grimly. "He didn't even give a warning before firing. Frankly, from how you've been talking I'm surprised he could remember his gun."

"It would be instinct," answered Blair automatically. "Especially if she reached for her own, it wouldn't take conscious thought, just conditioned response."

The captain sighed. "That makes this a lot more complicated. And a whole lot more dangerous for all concerned. You said you've figured out the reasons?"

"Maybe, I think so..."

"Then get in." Banks opened the door. "We have to get back to the station."

On the way the captain demanded the explanation. Blair tried to keep it as non-technical as possible, easy enough to do when he wasn't positive of most of the details as it was. "I mentioned that ultrasonic device, how it might have triggered hyper-sensory-stimulation, so Jim more or less overloaded.

"What didn't occur to me right away for some reason was why it triggered anything. Last night, Jim and I were up late at the lab, doing tests..." Blair swallowed, gazed out the window. "I was studying hyper-stimulation, investigating the 'zone-out.' The main thing I was trying was to increase several senses simultaneously, and I was doing it by exposing him to multiple stimuli..."

"What exactly are you talking about?" asked the captain.

"Our experiments—my experiments. Basically they prepped Jim to go off like this." Blair ran his hand through his hair. "All it took was exposure to something like last night and his senses reverted to full power—only in uncontrolled conditions." He took a deep breath. "What I'm saying is that if I hadn't done those tests this wouldn't have happened. I don't know how to fix it, we can't even find Jim. And it's all my fault."

"Bullshit," snapped the captain. "You couldn't have known you'd run across this today. Would this have happened in a week, or would it have worn off?"

"It probably would have gone away, but—"

"And did you know it could've happened at all?"

"No, but I should have—"

"Blair, I know you love your tests and experiments and research," Simon said, "but I also know you wouldn't have ever done any test that would put Jim in danger, no matter how much interesting data it could get you."

"I should have known this one would!" Blair exploded. "I should have guessed the problems and watched for them, and I should have realized when it started happening, caught the symptoms—"

"You noticed them before anyone else," Banks shot back, "and you responded to them, too. You did what you could, and you couldn't know any of that. I can't let you pin the blame on yourself, Blair—I need your help too much right now. If we're gonna catch Jim, we need your expertise." He paused, but Blair didn't speak, only stared forward stiffly. "If it's anyone's fault, it's the bank robbers. Put the guilt on the criminals where it belongs."

There was a long moment of silence. Before they reached the station Blair finally spoke. "What do you need my expertise for?" he asked quietly. "I don't know how to find him, I can't track him, and I don't know if I can reach him or help him even if they do bring him in eventually."

"Blair," and he jerked at the unfamiliarity of his first name coming from the captain, "you're the only one who can give us even a fighting chance of getting him."

"What do you mean?"

"I spoke with the Chief. He's ordered a SWAT team."

"On Jim?" If circumstances had been any lighter Blair would have smiled at the blank incredulity in his own voice.

"He shot at a cop." The captain's hands tightened around the wheel. "Chief Warren wants to get him off the streets before anyone else gets hurt—or before the media gets wind of this." They braked in front of the station. As they climbed out Simon continued, "You and I both know that Jim's got an advantage over any SWAT team. I'm counting on you to even the odds."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Blair demanded.

The captain waited until they were inside, heading downstairs to the basement. "You're going to tell them about his senses."

Blair froze in place, forcing Banks to stop as well. "Simon, I can't. You know that. We've kept this a secret for good reason, if people found out what Jim could do..." Whatever else he did, whatever other mistakes he made, he wouldn't betray that trust, he couldn't put Jim in that danger as well.

Shaking his head, the captain said, "I'm not ordering a full disclosure, Sandburg. You won't have to say a word about Sentinels. All you need to tell them about is the immediate problem. They need to know what they're up against, give them an idea of what he's going through, the negatives and the advantages he has."

"What am I supposed to tell them?" snapped Blair. "'He's a superman, but don't worry, it's temporary'? What kind of explanation are they going to want?"

"They don't need an explanation," Banks told him. "Just the facts. Tell them it's a drug or hypnosis or something. Use your creativity. What's important is that they know what he's capable of right now. Anything more isn't necessary."

"But—"

"This may be our best hope of bringing him in," reminded the captain. "You want them to succeed. If they go into this ignorant, what are the chances that everyone will come back in one piece?"

They proceeded down the hall to a nondescript door leading to a basic briefing room. Before entering Simon turned to him. "Are you willing to do this? Are you going to go in there and talk to those men?"

"Do I have a choice?" Blair inquired with a trace of bitterness.

The captain shrugged and opened the door. The five inside immediately stood. Without their equipment, but the black uniforms looked imposing even lacking the vests and helmets. "Gentlemen," Banks introduced him, "this is Blair Sandburg, one of our civilian advisors. He's here to brief you on this situation." Then he stepped back, effectively placing Blair in the spotlight.

The team nodded sharply and trained their attention on him. Blair groped in his pocket and found his glasses, placing them on his nose with a deep breath. Then he settled into his role of lecturer without visible discomfort.

Watching him, the captain was reminded that in addition to his many other functions Sandburg was also a professor, and judging from his performance here a pretty damn good one. The glasses made him appear more a responsible adult and less an eager kid, and the complex hand gestures which accompanied the pacing didn't seem so goofy for an educated speaker. And Blair was certainly educated about his topic.

"Detective Ellison was accidentally exposed to an unknown reactive agent," he began. "The result of this exposure is temporarily hyperactive senses. The condition he's in medically and psychologically is complex; it's probably best to compare him to a person on a powerful hallucinogen and stimulants." Simon doubted any of the others caught the tiny hesitation at the mention of hallucinogens. Pushing on, "He's running on straight adrenaline and is extremely paranoid. And he's armed, which all adds up to make him dangerous. I guess you knew all that already." Blair attempted a smile.

It wasn't returned, but at least one of the men responded verbally. "We were told this, Mr. Sandburg. What other information do you have?"

Yanking his fingers through his hair, Blair glanced back at the captain before answering. "The condition Ji—Detective Ellison is in makes him more dangerous than you're aware. Hyperactive senses can be a bonus as well as a threat. Physically he's in top condition, same as you; mentally he's in trouble; sensory-wise he's off the scale."

"So what's the trouble?" one of the other men asked.

"You use surveillance equipment to track people? Microphones, amplifiers, night-vision scopes, even just binoculars? Well, currently Jim doesn't need any of that stuff, but he's able to see and hear _more_ than what you'd be able to with it. He might have trouble sorting it all out, but he's going to be particularly tuned to danger, people looking for him. He'll be able to sense you coming before you've even located him. That means he'll be able to keep a jump ahead of you easily. And if you do encounter him, he's not going to be a simple catch."

The SWAT team appeared impressed by Blair's vehemence. A third man inquired, "Mr. Sandburg, would it be possible to give us some specific examples?"

Again the almost imperceptible hesitation. Simon nodded minutely. Go ahead, tell them, give them the chance. Blair sighed silently and continued, "In terms of vision, his eyes are on par with a good pair of binoculars and a professional magnifying glass. He'd be able to read a license plate from about three blocks away or see a pinprick in a tire. I mentioned night-vision—his is about equivalent to a wild-cat's; in other words, what looks completely pitch-black to you has enough light that he'd see you easily. Hearing is likewise increased—he'd be able to hear what I'm saying right now from outside the station. If you whisper or even use radio to coordinate during a run forget it; he'll not only hear you coming, he might listen to your plans."

They all raised their eyebrows at that, but none of them protested. Simon wondered how'd they react if they were told more of it—like if any of them had cologne he'd smell it from half a mile away, or that he could feel their steps the moment they put a foot on his floor. He wondered how tuned Jim would be to those sense, with the others overwhelming him.

Probably more than was good for the team's job. Sandburg seemed convinced that Jim's evident paranoia was making him more sensitive than ever, sounded like a vicious circle if ever he'd encountered one. The more he detected danger, the more paranoid he'd get... They had better bring him in soon. Before this went too far to recover.

Blair's lecture wound down. The captain came forward to conclude it. "Jim Ellison's a cop, remember. What's going on here isn't his fault, and so far he hasn't committed any crimes. Our object is to find him before that changes. The number one priority now is to catch him without injury to any of us." And he's one of us. Though unspoken, the words were clear.

The five men nodded again to indicate their understanding and filed out of the room following Blair's exit. Before Banks left the leader of the team caught his arm. "I have to ask," he said in a low voice, "that—man," Simon could tell he originally meant 'boy' but changed it to something more appropriate, "Sandburg, he seemed to know what he was talking about—"

"He did," Simon confirmed sharply.

"But was it accurate? Can Ellison really do all that?"

"At the moment, thanks to the circumstances—yes, he can," the captain answered. "Everything the ki—Sandburg told you is true, and he wasn't exaggerating. You better keep it in mind while planning or you'll fail."

"Understood." The man left, Banks behind him.

Directly outside the door Blair was leaning against the wall, arms folded as he gazed fixedly at the floor. He started when the captain quietly called his name. "Something wrong?"

He waited until the SWAT leader had turned the corner before replying. "For the last two and a half years I've been keeping this secret, everything about Jim's senses, him being a Sentinel, I didn't slip a word to Carolyn, or Stephen, or my mother, or any girlfriend. Even when sometimes it might have made things a little easier.

"And I just went in there and told five strangers everything. So they can hunt down Jim as if he's some kind of psychopath or a crazy drughead."

"You didn't betray him, Blair," Simon assured him. "You were doing what you always do—everything you can to help Jim. Now come on, we have to keep up with that team."

"Why?" Blair demanded as he was hustled down the hall.

"Because we're going with them, of course." He almost grinned at Sandburg's dropped jaw.

"Man, I thought I was going to have to threaten you at gunpoint to let me along!"

The captain shook his head. "I'm the head of this assignment, and I need you there as much as the SWAT team." More, actually. "Once we get Jim, it's your game." He wasn't just giving in to Blair's unarticulated demands, or handing over responsibility because he was Jim's partner. It wouldn't be ended just by finding Ellison; they'd still have to right whatever had gone wrong, at the very least calm him down.

And Captain Banks knew that the only person with a chance in hell of getting through to Jim was Blair Sandburg. He only hoped that the strange bond they shared, as friends, as partners, as Sentinel and Guide—whatever they called it, he prayed it was strong enough. Because otherwise, the Cascade PD stood to lose two of its very finest.

 

* * *

 

 

The report came through only a few minutes later, and then Blair found himself squeezing into the police van, wedged between the two tallest members of the SWAT team and feeling a bit claustrophobic.

Simon Banks, who was still the largest among them and thus unintimidated—not that the captain ever was intimidated—gave them a quick rundown as they rattled their way to the location. "Warehouse on the east side. Not abandoned but currently empty, it's just been leased to the Wilkenson Corporation but they haven't filled it with anything yet. A silent alarm was set off and when the watchmen came they found someone had broken in through a window. No one's exited, though. I've ordered them not to investigate until we arrive. Can't be sure this is him, but it's only a couple of miles from the bank—easily within reach the way he was running." Simon allowed them all to assimilate this. "Any questions? Good. Sandburg, suggestions before we get there?"

"Just one," Blair replied, "turn off that siren now. Unless you're really that anxious to let him know we're coming after him."

Simon winced; Blair had the impression he would have blushed had he been able. "Of course." Leaning forward he had a few quick words with the driver; the wailing stopped, though the emergency lights kept flashing.

Blair gazed at the reflection of the flickering blue strobe, thinking. If Jim were inside that warehouse, he wouldn't be able to see it; even Sentinel vision couldn't penetrate walls. And he would be inside, the wide spectrum of sunlight must be agony to his eyes. No wonder he had reacted, if the most basic of natural entities overloaded his perceptions. Nowhere to run or hide in the end, not from whole intense world.

One of the major duties of Guides was to keep that controlled, to make sure it didn't overwhelm, to help their Sentinel hold down those wonderful, terrible abilities to manageable levels. To prevent the world from flooding over the barriers. Well, he certainly had failed at that today. And the price of incompetence was being exacted from Jim.

Alone as he was now he couldn't possibly get a grip on it, there would be nothing solid to grab in the chaos he was steeped in. His mind so bombarded wouldn't be able to form those dials, impossible to turn down the levels enough to give Jim room to think. But how long before he realized that there was no way to stop it, that he had nothing left to bear the unendurable?

One of the team bent toward him, interrupting his train of thought. "Mr. Sandburg, if you have to accompany us, please put this on."

Blair looked down at the kevlar vest shoved into his hands. "Oh yeah. Thanks." If he had to come. He glanced at Simon, understanding why they were allowing him along at all, obviously against their better judgment. Shrugging into the vest, he wondered if it was actually necessary.

Jim would never hurt him, not in his right mind, his Sentinel would never turn against him. But his Sentinel didn't exist at the moment, buried under an infinity of sensations and the madness accompanying them.

Hold on, Jim, Blair plead silently. We're coming. I know I'm late, but I'm doing everything I can.

He only could hope that it would be enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Kneeling in the deeper darkness he wrestled with the demons. For brief moments he would feel a glimmer of success, a flash of power, something reduced to almost comprehensible limits, but then another force would intervene and it would all spiral out of his reach.

The distant, enormous roar of traffic, rising and falling like irregular tides with the vehicles cruising the streets outside this place. Concentrate, a voice demanded, an internal tenor issuing commands sporadically. Listen to the sounds and then close them out.

I'm trying I'm trying. As soon as he heard a sound another one would block it out and then the first would return, dancing through his mind, was any of it even there? The voice wasn't, it wasn't in his ears, not the way his breath hissed in them, not the way his own heartbeat thumped to them. The voice came from somewhere inside, unreal, not his own but as familiar, and whenever he tried to listen to it, it faded from even his memory. Still he tried to grasp it. And obey it. Concentrate. Rumble of something big outside, focus, eliminate, bring it down—

A single sharp point skittered across his vision, the dust mote blasting his attention with its brilliant dispersal of light. For an instant it transfixed him, and then a draft flowed in and streaked across his skin, raising goose bumps where its coldness touched.

The air brought sound as well, more vibrations shaking his ears, and among them he heard another growl of an engine, tires against pavement. It stopped, close, barely outside the thin walls of concrete he crouched behind. Footsteps thudding on the cement outside. The clunk of a metal door slammed. Voices.

Whispered they were, a soft susurration of air forced past lips and tongues, bypassing vocal chords. Pauses, several different sets, overlapping. Words unimportant, impossible to interpret, meaningless beneath the emphatic nature of sound itself.

More steps, precise but still echoing to his ears and under his feet, and then harsher rattles, creaks, doors opened. Not closed again. And footsteps.

Instinct flattened him to the ground, legs curled under him, smaller and less easy to see, dark shape within dark calm shadows. Searching, he was hunted, and so he hid, digging his hands into the boards below him, scratching the skin against the abrasive wood. Wincing as the many tiny splinters drove into his flesh but not risking movement. Steps closer. Other sounds, rustling clothing, breathing shallow but necessary. A heartbeat's faint rhythm.

Slender weak sound, he made it out only barely though the rest, skin sliding against smooth metal. A weapon, a gun, a danger. Scent now, more than the dry wood rotting inside, not dust or faint cleaning chemicals, but the pronounced odor of a living human, overlaid with soaps and shampoos and laundry detergents. He tensed, locking his body rigid and still, hearing the quietest whine of the bones protesting, feeling the slight tremble of stress through every muscle.

Before him stepped the man, enormous, filling his vision, and he stayed frozen, pressed back, eyes drawn to the metallic glitter in one dark hand, the dazzling white glow of the flashlight in the other. And then the beam passed over him, torture blinding him only momentarily, but it gave the other time to react.

As he blinked something thick and heavy crashed into his side, knocking the wind from his lungs, and warm rough weight tried to encircle him, strangle him, but he threw it off, he bucked and offbalanced his assailant, who tried again to grab him as he fell. Twisting away from that hold he heard the dry crack of the wood and the cry of his attacker and they fell, the world spinning crazily but the grip on him was lost.

 

* * *

 

 

Simon Banks had no warning of the drop and for an instant he thought he was going to tumble through the blackness forever. It was not to be; the cement arrived soon enough, slamming against him with enough force that he wondered at the lack of pain. For about a quarter of a second and then his startled nerves screamed agony, filling his vision with stars.

He forced it to clear, blinked through the whining fog and saw Jim roll to his feet like a cat, hunched in a defensive stance owing little to training and much to instinctual response. His own instincts shoved him back, trying frantically to escape from that cold blue stare skipping over him vaguely, seeing but not focusing. Insanity all that was visible in those dancing eyes, if he hadn't known of it already.

Quick personal inventory. Flashlight smashed up good, but the high windows here offered sunlight to see by well enough. If only it had been brighter in Jim's chosen hiding place...guns, where were the guns? He spotted his own, flown across the floor, with Jim pacing between. And Jim's own weapon—in his hand, loosely gripped but careful, too, it wouldn't be dropped any time soon.

Not the best situation he could conceive of.

Pushing himself to his knees he gasped at the sudden stab of pain. Jim started at the sound, whirled to glare at him directly, and Simon choked back any involuntary noises. Shakily drew air back into his lungs only after the other man's gaze shifted, darting around the room as if hearing alerts from every side.

Probably was, at that. Simon used the moment of distraction to examine his traitorous leg. Clamping his jaw he prodded it gently, jamming his tongue against his teeth to keep any stray vocalization from escaping. Not broken, he diagnosed uncertainly. Bad sprain at least, though.

He felt the headset against his chin and wondered what the odds were that it had survived the fall intact. Blair had warned them in no uncertain terms not to speak until they had found Jim, but that qualifier had been met. Moving slowly, cautiously, as one would when around a dangerous predator, he reached up and adjusted it, flicked it on. Barely whispering, he announced, "I found him."

Jim snapped around to face him at the words, mad icy eyes accusatory. Simon spoke fast, explaining as swiftly as possible his location, their positions. Before he could receive acknowledgment the Sentinel reached down, tore the set from his head with enough haste that the cord whipped Simon across the face, and flung it away into a corner. Jerking at the slight clatter when it hit the floor. "Jim!" Simon exclaimed in shock, not thinking, and the other man turned on him again, eyes flashing blue fire.

Seeing no comprehension in the dilated black pupils, Simon held his breath and waited for the next inaudible sound to draw his dangerous attention once more away.

 

* * *

 

 

When Simon's voice first had crackled over the earphone, Blair had to bite his tongue to keep from berating his captain for breaking the law of silence. That impulse vanished when he heard the report.

The SWAT leader tapped him on the shoulder, indicated the exit. Nodding, Blair followed him outside.

He admitted to being impressed with their coordination—without instruction, the rest of the team arrived within minutes. They also stayed silent until they had all climbed back into the van, closing the door with minimal noise.

"Can he hear us?" whispered the leader once that was accomplished. Drawing them all into something like a football team huddle.

Blair shook his head. "I don't know. Possibly. Probably, but he won't be able to make out what we're saying." He wondered if the others perceived that he was flying by the seat of his pants. Simon had assured them he was the expert, but that was an extremely relative concept. He knew more than they did about Jim's abilities. He knew a hell of a lot less than the Sentinel himself.

Letting his ignorance show wouldn't do much good at the moment, though. He hoped he was coming across as sufficiently educated. All those years in the classroom had to be good for something.

The leader at least seemed to take him at face value. "We'll have to risk it. You all had your radios on." Statement, not question. Nor was the next, stated without qualm or indecision. "He has Banks hostage. We know where. The best plan of attack—"

"Excuse me," Blair cut him off, "Sergeant—"

"Lieutenant," one of the others corrected him patiently.

"Lieutenant—" It occurred to him that he didn't know any of their names. Jim wasn't the only one who lost track when focused on a task—"Lieutenant, I know I don't have the badge or the rank to give orders, but I am the only one that understands what's going on here."

"Then explain it."

Blair had the distinct impression that they were humoring the civilian, not intending to actually listen or act upon a single things he said. It was the only opening he was going to get, though. "All right, you got me, I don't know exactly what's happening." Stun them with honesty; it had worked with hard-nosed professors at least. "I can tell you this much, though, Jim Ellison isn't holding anybody hostage. If he were thinking clearly enough to do something like that he would recognize the captain. And there wouldn't be any problems then."

"Maybe he does recognize him, and that's the problem," one of the team murmured.

"What do you mean?" Blair heard his tone rise but couldn't prevent the excitable decibel increase.

Fortunately the other man had enough sense to keep his own voice quiet. "I've heard Captain Banks is a tough guy to cross. Maybe this is some kind of revenge—"

He couldn't get any farther. Blair snapped back, "Jim Ellison isn't a renegade cop-gone-bad, and Simon Banks isn't Captain Bligh, and though the captain's his superior he's also one of Jim's best friends. The only reason he's in any danger is because Detective Ellison is hurt, he is being mentally tortured—"

"I know," said the SWAT man placatingly, "I didn't mean that, I was thinking subconsciously or something—"

But Blair was on a roll, and though he knew that he was losing all semblance of objectivity or credibility he couldn't stop himself from finishing, "Jim is in more danger than Captain Banks right now, and we're not here to bring him down, we're here to help him. He is not a criminal, he's my partner, and instead of planning an attack as if he's a terrorist, we should be trying to find the way to save him."

Quieting his breathing he became aware of five pairs of eyes trained on him, coolly appraising his flushed face. Probably trying to figure out the best way to send the crazy civilian home, Blair thought. He had certainly done an excellent job of alienating them—

Which is why he was so surprised when the lieutenant nodded slowly and whispered, "It's your game, Mr. Sandburg; how do we play it?"

 

* * *

 

 

Simon watched Jim pace, sitting perfectly still, feeling like a rabbit next to a fox—if I don't move he might not see me. Cowardice was not something he had much experience with, but neither was the situation. He didn't like being separated from his gun. He especially didn't like being separated from it by a man who did have one.

And he didn't know how to deal with it when the armed man in question was one of his own, and a good friend besides. But Jim currently seemed unaware of the relation and was jumping at sounds and shadows Simon couldn't even perceive. He stayed motionless.

Jim strode back and forth, the movement familiar though his expression was even more dangerous than usual. The clamped jaw betrayed a nervous tic in the cheek, and the random darting of the blue eyes was frighteningly unnatural. Every time Simon so much as dared breathe, he would be pinned under those mad eyes for an instant. And not once could he find in them any sign of recognition.

He wished Blair were here. He tried not to, and he kept having to take back the thought, only to return to it a minute later. Simon would never wish this on the kid, not crouching here injured, not in danger, and not having to see his best friend, partner, and Sentinel so far gone.

But all the same, Blair would know how to handle this. He'd know what to say, some silly enlightened junk, but it would be just the phrases that Jim would need to hear, that he would listen to. What would Sandburg do? He should know; certainly Simon had heard that Guide routine a thousand times before. He cleared his throat, tried to keep from flinching under the piercing gaze thus earned. "Jim, listen to me, you've go to get this under control, you can do it if you try," dammit but spouting out this stuff was harder than he'd have thought. Now what was Blair always going on about while leashing Jim's senses? "Dial down your senses, turn them off—" How do you properly tell someone to make like a light bulb? "Just concentrate on blocking—"

Jim growled, a low, furious, terrifyingly primal sound, owing nothing to civilization and humanity and everything to the wildness of a big jungle cat. Simon shut his mouth with an audible click, aware that he had crossed a line in the wrong direction. Not the right words then, or maybe it was his tone, he hadn't managed to evoke the complete confidence in the Sentinel that Blair could exhibit...

Or maybe he wasn't a Guide. Or maybe there was no way to get through to him.

He switched his concentration to hoping for outside assistance. Cut off as he was there was little he could do to help, but he could at least cross his fingers and take some comfort in the knowledge that the SWAT team—and Blair—were doing all they could.

 

* * *

 

 

"Look, you said I had the ball," Blair whispered. "I'm calling the shots. And I'm not going to be in danger."

The lieutenant looked far from convinced. "You've told us that Captain Banks is his friend. I know he's your partner, but he doesn't seem in the mood to listen to anyone."

"I have to try," Blair replied. "My way first. If I fail," he wouldn't, he couldn't, "then we go with yours."

"The terrorist attack?" For a moment he couldn't read the man's look; then he saw the arched eyebrow and quirked a faint smile.

"Yeah. That." Though he didn't give that plan a higher success rate. Jim under siege would defend as one attacked, with the combined and refined instincts of both a Sentinel and a former Army Ranger.

Not much good to explain this to them. He couldn't tell them more of Jim's sensory abilities without betraying the entire confidence. If he brought up the military training he'd probably spark a macho competition drive; he could just imagine one of the SWAT team turning out to be a former SEAL intent on proving himself against Jim...

And they would be even less willing to let him have his chance. One shot, that's all you've got, Blair. You can't afford to miss.

 

* * *

 

 

If he stayed frozen like this for much longer he'd be paralyzed. Simon attempted to shift positions silently. His ankle throbbed hotly but the surreptitious twisting didn't lessen the pain. Jim's quick paces took him in wide circles around the room, but not far enough away that he wouldn't drive his glare into the captain if he so much as scratched his chin.

Before he sensed them himself he knew they were coming, by the way Jim raised his head, stared fixedly at the wall for nearly a minute, his attention captured by something distinctive and obvious. Eventually Simon too heard the light footsteps, several sets, people treading cautiously beyond the walls and on the catwalk near the alcove. They were trying to be quiet, but knowing what he was listening for he could make them out, and they had no hope of fooling Jim.

The Sentinel twitched, jerked around to glare upwards, then toward the locked doorway. His grip on the gun tightened. Simon frowned, disturbed; he had thought, hoped, Jim might have forgotten the weapon. If he thought to use it things might get ugly.

The whistle, short and sharp, surprised him. Jim winced, gun ignored as he squinted up at the source of the sound.

Simon wasn't prepared either for the soft voice that issued from above, "That's it, don't move, I'm coming down."

He shook his head emphatically, trying to mutely deny the speaker's request. He wasn't in a position to be obeyed, however, and Blair clambered down the ladder. Jim stepped back at every impact of a boot sole against the metal, eyes locked on the descending figure.

The ladder didn't extend all the way and Blair had to drop the final six feet, bending his knees when he hit the cement and springing up again immediately. "Sandburg, get out of here," Simon hissed, but the other shook his head minutely, gaze focused on Jim.

"That's it, easy there, big guy," he was murmuring, almost under his breath; Simon could barely make out the words from only a few feet away. Pitched for a Sentinel's ears. "At least you're listening, keep doing it, just listen to my voice, ignore everything, except what I'm saying." A constant hushed stream of prattle. The words didn't matter as much as the tone. Definitely what he had done wrong.

Simon glared worriedly at Blair's back as he advanced one careful step. Jim didn't move, his eyes flicking on him and away, but always coming back to his Guide. Blair treaded slowly, every motion subdued and deliberate, a far cry from the anthropologist's normal energy.

There was something familiar in his mannerisms; it took Simon a little while to make the association. Animal trainers, veterinarians, when dealing with dangerous or injured animals, they used such techniques. Calm, soothing tones and have no fear because the creatures can smell it. He had a quick flash of Blair in a lion tamer's get-up, complete with whip and chair, and had to bite back a grin. Stress can have interesting effects on one's mind.

As fearless as any circus performer Blair kept talking, approaching Jim gradually, stopping whenever he turned to track some imperceptible sensation. He had managed to calm the man, at least. Simon couldn't tell if he actually was reaching him, however.

Jim's jerk and subsequent wild stare made Simon scan the area. He spied Lieutenant Conrad on the catwalk above him. The SWAT leader waved once and Simon acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod. Then he and Jim both started as they heard the soft metallic clang, one of the SWAT men heading down the ladder.

Blair glanced back and instantly grasped the situation before turning his attention back to Jim. He spoke louder for a moment, "Ignore that, just focus on me, concentrate on my voice and ignore the other sounds, listen to me," and then he dropped back to murmuring.

The SWAT man touched down beside Simon almost noiselessly. Almost was not enough, however; Jim looked past Blair and saw the newcomer. His eyes narrowed and his mouth opened slightly, teeth partly bared, and he raised the hand holding the gun.

Blair whistled, the same piercing tone, and closer to it now Jim flinched, stepped back. If he went much farther he'd be against the wall, Simon saw, unsure if that would be good or bad. Blair was playing this dangerously. But the gun was lowered, and he seemed once again absorbed by his Guide's babble.

Small clinking heralded a second SWAT man's descent. Simon saw the lieutenant still on the catwalk, watching the proceedings from his concealed vantage point. The other two men must be deployed strategically around as well, out of sight but within range.

Then the SWAT man lost his grip on the metal rung and fell the rest of the way. He landed hard, collapsing to his knees to avoid injuring them with the shock.

Watching him recover, Simon missed the territorial threat, but he heard Blair's suddenly loud shout, "No!" and the crack of the gunshot. Whipping around he saw the observer, the kid, collapse, and understood that the bullet had been intercepted before reaching its target.

Before he could even begin to crawl toward Blair, Jim was standing over him, gun still in hand, glaring at them with a ferocity matching that of a panther protecting cubs, and with less intellect behind it.

They all froze, Simon and the SWAT team at their various positions. He'll be all right, the captain reassured himself. He was wearing a vest, he's probably bruised, maybe broke a few ribs and had the wind knocked out of him. When we find a way to get Jim off of him—even that was a good sign, that some element of the protector remained in the Sentinel. This might all work out in the end...

Then he saw the dark seeping into Blair's cotton shirt and knew with a terrible sinking dread that somehow yet again Sandburg had managed to beat the odds.

 

* * *

 

 

Blair himself didn't realize right away that he had been hit. All he knew was that he had seen Jim raise the gun, and that he had to stop him from committing a crime he would never forgive himself for, and then he had been slammed into the ground. He was momentarily convinced that his back was broken; then the body-wide aches diminished and a hot agony burned into his side and arm.

Since he could still feel the weight of the kevlar under his shirt he didn't believe his nerves at first. Then his other hand reached the spot, doubling the pain to unbearable levels and touching a spreading sticky warmth. The bullet had torn through the arm and into his side, or at least that was his best guess.

And Jim was over him, snarling. Not at him; at the other men, who might be able to help if only they could get close. Medical training or no, currently Jim couldn't assist him, but if he kept up the defense neither could anyone else. Blair performed a rudimentary self-diagnosis. Breathing fast but it didn't hurt much and he was getting air; heart still beating, actually pounding in his ears. He couldn't be too badly injured; blood loss would be the biggest problem. Clamping his hand over his other arm he pressed it to his side and tried not to gag at the pain.

Jim glanced down at his gasp and Blair saw the too-wide eyes open farther. A sound from the men across the room and his gaze snapped toward them again, gripping the gun tighter. But at least the Sentinel was protecting someone beyond himself. Progress of sorts.

And Blair had to complete the task. If he gave up now, if he gave Jim a chance to understand what had happened, he might never come back. He needs you, Sandburg—are you a Guide or a mouse?

"Jim, listen to me," and immediately he was met with the ice-blue stare. "That's it, just listen to me," though it was hard to speak with his teeth clenching involuntarily at the waves of pain emanating from his side. "Ignore them, they don't matter, you have to focus. Keep your focus internal, screen everything out."

One of the men took a step, and Blair wanted to scream at him when he saw Jim jerk up, gun at ready. "No, no, I told you, forget about him," the words pouring out and he fought to keep his voice steady, hearing it crack and soar despite his efforts, "on me, listen to me, look at me, Jim. Look at me, good," as the whirling lost eyes found him, "Jim, I want you to drop the gun, the gun in your hand, open your hand, relax your fingers. Let go of the gun, Jim, you don't need it. Drop it."

The hand lowered, fingers loosening around the weapon, and Blair released his hold on his injury to reach out and grab his wrist. Jim started at the contact but Blair didn't let go, only squeezed lightly, "That's it, drop it. Just put it down."

The gun clattered to the floor. Jim jumped, tensing when he heard the other men collectively exhale. One or two began to walk to them, Blair couldn't see but heard their approach. "No!" he gasped. "Stop!"

Jim saw them, tried to yank away, but Blair held fast. "No, ignore them, concentrate on me, look me in the eyes," and he met the other's, stared into the madness and fury and terror unblinking. Somewhere behind that chaos was Jim Ellison, and then he saw the desperation and knew that he was close, that all Jim needed was a handhold and he'd pull himself from it.

Despite his request Blair heard a quiet footfall and Jim reared back, straining, to attack or flee, Blair couldn't tell, but he wouldn't allow him. Instead he pulled the arm to his chest, pressed the hand against his heart. "Listen," he commanded, "feel it, listen to it, hear the heartbeat, that's the only thing you hear, it's all you feel."

Jim shuddered once and froze, still glaring across the floor, mouth slightly open. Blair could hear him faintly exhale, but no other sounds; the others had halted their attempt. His heartbeat was filling his own ears, thundering, and his breath rasped harshly, but all else was paralyzed, time stopped.

And then he saw the slightest change, the staring eyes above him lightening as the enormous black pupils shrank, contracting to normal size and then bare pin-pricks, the breathing slowing until it nearly stopped. Zone out. Blair had never been so happy to see the reaction.

His own vision was becoming spotted, filling with dark flashing circles. It occurred to him that the pain from the wound had so diminished that he could nearly forget it was there, but as he pondered this he felt his hold slide from Jim's wrist, his fingers refusing to grip. The warm hand against his heart shifted and he tried to protest but his jaw wouldn't work. He almost thought he heard a quiet, well-known voice call his name, and then he was swallowed by blackness.

 

* * *

 

 

Jim blinked away the disorientation that followed breaking from a zone, allowing the rest of the world to intrude on his concentration. The surroundings seemed wrong somehow, and then the confusion was driven from his mind by the sight of his Guide, lying pale and unmoving beneath him. "Blair?"

He had been conscious before; Jim could recall him speaking, telling him to listen to his heartbeat. He listened to it now, booming in his ears, wrong, too slow, too fast, he couldn't tell, but the rhythm was off. He tried to focus but the blue eyes were closed and the only thing that he could see was the blood, bright red where it flowed from his side, darker where it stained the light shirt. A spectrum of scarlet, covering his vision, the only color in the world that mattered.

He was shoved roughly to the side, line of sight obstructed by another body, and he cried out angrily as someone grabbed his wrists, tried to force them behind his back. "No!" ordered another voice, another he knew, "I'll handle it." A gentler touch, and a questioning, "Jim? Come on, don't do this now."

"Simon?"

His captain smiled broadly, nodded, "That's right, thank God." Over his words approaching sirens wailed, and with a loud crash a door burst inward. A SWAT man hurried in, followed by two paramedics with a stretcher. They headed directly for the crumpled body of his Guide.

"Let me by," Jim gasped, trying to push past Simon, but the larger man blocked him, hid his view.

"They'll handle it, Jim. He'll be all right." But his heart was thundering too slowly and his breathing was too shallow, and Jim shrugged off Simon's grip, tried to get to Blair's side as they lifted him onto the stretcher. He was stopped by one of the SWAT men, a lieutenant he vaguely knew. Dark expression, suppressed—anger? Apprehension? in his slightly accelerated pulse. "No, Detective Ellison, you can't go anywhere yet."

"You don't get it, I have to—"

The man was an unmoving wall, halting him without effort, looking over his shoulder and speaking over him, "Are you okay, Captain?"

Jim glanced back, saw with a pang of guilt that Simon was pushing himself back to his feet. Or foot, as it was; he balanced on his left leg, putting no weight on his right but letting it dangle at an odd injured angle. "I'm fine," he replied gruffly, hopping toward them.

The SWAT lieutenant moved to his side and gave support without asking. "That ambulance hasn't left yet, we should get you to it."

"No," Simon said emphatically. "This isn't an emergency. You can drive us to the ER."

"'Us'?"

"Jim and I." He gestured at the detective.

Eyeing him disparagingly the SWAT man remarked, "We should be taking him into custody."

"He's not a criminal," Simon snapped, "and he needs to come, too."

Jim heard the altercation but the words didn't register, focused as he was on Blair's heartbeat, fading as it grew more distant, until the ambulance doors closed and he no longer could hear it at all. Except his mind provided the steady beat, counterpoint to his heart's own rhythm, always with him even when the Guide was absent. There had been a time when he couldn't hear it, not long ago—frowning, he tried to remember precisely how it had been drowned out. Vague dreamlike glimpses of chaos and loss but nothing concrete, though he had a clear memory of it returning, its stability anchoring his world.

Simon tapped his arm. "Come on, Jim," and he followed obediently, ignoring the strange heavy stares of the SWAT team around them, heading for the hospital where he could find that beat again and with it sense and order.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later Simon shook himself awake, sitting up straighter to keep from dozing again. One would think that the hard plastic hospital seats would be enough keep anyone awake, but at this hour...he checked his watch. Nine o'clock PM. Hardly the middle of the night. Getting soft, he berated himself.

Unbelievable, that this was the evening of the same day. This morning the biggest dilemma had been running short of Advil and now he was holding vigil at the hospital. Not a new experience, but not one he ever enjoyed.

The door of the waiting room opened and someone entered, dismissing the solitude. "Captain Banks?" the man asked.

"Yes, Lieutenant Conrad?"

The SWAT leader fidgeted. Out of uniform and in plainclothes he appeared much younger, less assured. "I just got off. I had a double shift and they wouldn't let me go early. We were already told, but I wanted to be sure about Mr. Sandburg."

"Blair's doing okay," Simon verified. "He's been out of surgery for a while and already woke up once. The wound wasn't severe, relatively speaking. He passed out from the blood loss, but they stuck an IV into him and took care of it."

The lieutenant nodded. "Glad to hear it," he replied with a smile, "I didn't want to have a civilian working with me get hurt."

"Story of my life," muttered Simon. More clearly he told him, "I wouldn't have let you take the blame for it. If there's one thing I know about our observer—advisor," he hastily promoted Blair, recollecting that was how he had introduced him, "it's that he's a trouble magnet."

"I wasn't worried about my career, sir," the SWAT man contradicted him. "Or my reputation, really. I didn't want anything to happen to him. I know he's a civilian, but off the record, just from what I saw we were better off with him than most of the force. He'd make one hell of a cop."

Simon's brief smile felt like it would crack his cheeks. "You figured out in a couple of hours what some in Major Crimes still haven't learned. That kid's our ace in the hole, he covers everything we miss. He's one of the best detectives in my division." That assessment of course was disregarding his major purpose as Guide, in which he had also proved his worthiness today about a dozen times over.

"He's not going to become an officer, is he," remarked Lieutenant Conrad, and sighed when Simon shook his head. "He didn't look like the type. But he's Detective Ellison's partner anyway."

"Yes. Completely," Simon confirmed.

"I got that," the man replied with a quick grin. "Wish I had a couple of guys that loyal at my back. Worked in both directions, too," he mused, humor fading. "How's the detective?"

"The doctors are checking him out now." The captain indicated the examination room door. "I think he'll be fine, too."

"Glad to hear it." His grim tone belied the words.

"Is something wrong, Lieutenant?"

The SWAT leader hesitated. "Not exactly, sir. It's just—whatever happened to him, is it going to happen again? What was it? Is anybody vulnerable? It wasn't a drug, I've seen people hallucinate, I know the basic symptoms of an overdose. Ellison wasn't dusted, he was insane. Did you hear him growl? I didn't know humans could make sounds like that."

"I wouldn't be too concerned," Simon informed him. "The circumstances were very unusual, we're still looking into them. From what we know so far, Detective Ellison was more susceptible than most..." He trailed off before he had to go into the particular details of Jim's vulnerabilities.

Lieutenant Conrad accepted the unenlightening explanation with some trepidation but didn't push the issue. "I'd be interested in hearing what you find out," he said.

"I'll give you the doctor's report when he finishes up." Almost certain that it would show nothing out of the ordinary. The Sentinel's abilities missed most medical screening.

"Why did it take them so long to get around to examining him?" asked the SWAT leader, curious.

Simon shrugged. "They had their hands full and I wanted them to be thorough." He didn't see fit to mention that Jim had zoned out most of the time Blair was in surgery and he hadn't wanted the doctors peering too closely at him in that state. And following that Jim had refused to submit or budge from his place by his Guide's bed until Blair had opened his eyes and mumbled a couple of words. Proving yet again his ability to survive anything with vocal chords intact.

Simon hadn't figured out yet if Jim even knew why Blair was in the hospital. Until Blair had awoken he seemed so dazed that it wasn't much of a step up from his previous state. But then the Guide spoke and Jim responded immediately, ennui falling away, getting in a quick tease about the pleasant young female surgeon who had worked on him before Blair drifted back asleep. But Jim had stayed present, agreed to see the doctors, and now Simon was waiting for him to get out so they could all go home. Or at least he could; Jim would probably spend the night on one of the hard vinyl hospital couches. Far from the first time.

"I wonder what they'll find," the SWAT lieutenant mused. Before Simon could respond the door opened and the examining doctor emerged, Jim at his heels. The doctor nodded to them and headed off down the hall. Jim stood there by the door for a moment in silence; Simon suddenly wondered how much he had heard. Probably everything.

Of course the lieutenant wouldn't know that; still, he was uncomfortable in Jim's presence. "Well, thank you, sir. Good night, Captain, Detective. Glad your partner's all right." He waved shortly and departed.

When the waiting room door closed behind him Simon turned to Jim. "So, did he find anything?"

"No. Big surprise there."

"You never know." Simon regarded his detective thoughtfully. "Jim, you understood why he examined you, didn't you?"

"Yes." Jim closed his eyes, collapsed into one of the chairs across from Simon. "I didn't right away, nothing was making sense, but he asked a couple of questions and I put them together with the warehouse and things fell into place."

"Good." Simon hadn't had any desire to explain the day. Especially not to Jim.

"Simon," Jim asked after a moment, his voice simultaneously weary and tense, "I shot him, didn't I? That's what happened, that's why Blair's in here now. I shot him."

"No," the captain answered, responding to the damning guilt first and addressing harsh facts after. "You pulled the trigger, but you weren't aiming for him, and you wouldn't have. It was an accident." This whole mess was an accident. "Even if it was worse, even if you had pointed it at him deliberately or if his injuries were greater, if he hadn't been wearing the vest or something—it still wouldn't be your fault. You weren't in control of your actions. No jury would convict you if they had the whole story." Not that this would ever go to court. Blair wouldn't press charges and Simon would cut through the red tape. Jim would be back where he belonged in no time, back on the force, his partner at his side.

But none of this mattered to Jim now, shaking his head, exhausted and miserable. "I could have killed him," he murmured. "He says I'm supposed to protect, but I could have killed him."

"No, you wouldn't have," Simon protested, knowing that it would do little good, having much prior experience with the Ellison guilt complex. Only one man could make any headway in that morass. Until Blair was next awake Simon simply had to ride it out, waiting for the Guide to work his magic and right everything once again. As he always could.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later Blair was ready to go home. It couldn't happen soon enough as far as he was concerned. Cute nurses or no, staring at the hospital ceiling tiles with nothing to do but grade student essays was not his preferred way of passing time.

But before he returned he had to clear up the matter of his home. Or more specifically, his roommate, who hadn't looked him directly in the eye for the past two days and who barely could say three words to him without freezing up. Blair had tried breaking down the walls with teasing, with forgiveness, with honest and earnest assurances that he placed no blame or guilt on him, even with the simple expedient that he was alive and shortly would be well and why dwell on the past. Since those methods had met with little success he turned to one thing that Jim rarely could ignore—cold straight truth.

"Jim, look at me," he commanded. Jim glanced up at him from his seat by the bed, plucking at invisible lint on the sheet, but his blue eyes slid away before they met Blair's. "Well, listen then," Blair went on resignedly. "None of this was your fault. I know you've had this explained—"

"I know it," Jim confirmed quietly.

"Then why won't you believe it?" Blair snapped. "Until you do we have to just keep telling you, I guess. You weren't in control, through no fault of your own, and you can't take the fall for what wasn't your responsibility."

"My responsibility," Jim stated, "is to protect and serve. As a cop. As a Sentinel."

"Yes, protect and serve," Blair agreed, "to the best of your abilities. You're a Sentinel, yes. You can do things that most people can't. But for some crazy reason that's inflated your ego to the point that you think you can do anything, that nothing is beyond your abilities. That's wrong, Jim. You have super senses maybe, but you're not a superman. What happened to you, no one could take that. It was too much, you're strong, even regular Sentinel abilities would be beyond most people's limits. You can handle them, but when they're thrown off like that, you couldn't take it."

Jim was shaking his head; Blair ignored the denial and pushed his point. "Remember Golden? It screwed up your vision but that wasn't your fault and you could accept that. And then me..." He gulped, pressed on, "You didn't blame me, I could've killed a lot more people, but I had that drug running around inside me as an excuse. The problem you're having is that your excuse is internal, something inside you that you couldn't control but you're convinced you should have been able to.

"You want to lay blame? Put it where it belongs, put it on me." Jim's head rocked up, for once staring him in the eyes, almost angrily. But at least he was getting through to him. "I'm your Guide. That's my whole purpose, to watch out for things like that, to watch your back, externally and internally, too. And I failed that but good."

"No." Jim shook his head in earnest now. "Blair, you had nothing to do with this—"

"Wrong," he replied, and had to swallow to keep his voice from cracking, "this was all my fault when you get down to it. I gave you those tests, I practically programmed you to respond like that. And I wasn't watching close enough, or I would have figured out what was happening and how to stop it before it went too far. I chose to get in your line of fire and I chose to tell the SWAT team more than they needed to know and then I could barely even find a way to reach you. Some Guide I make, huh?" He brushed at his eyes, feeling the water beginning to collect in them.

Jim grasped his shoulder and shook him gently. "That's right, Blair, you're one hell of a Guide. You did reach me. I don't know how you did it but you did."

"It wasn't me, you know that," answered Blair wearily. "It was all you, man. I gave you a hint and you found the way back yourself."

"Without that hint I never would have made it," Jim told him. "And it was me who got lost. One little noise and I'm off the deep end. You can't blame yourself for that, Blair. It could have happened at any time. And what's to keep it from happening again? This is my problem, I can't wave this away. I'm dangerous and there's no way around that. You're the best Guide I ever could have, but you can't cover everything."

"I sure as hell can try," Blair vowed. "It's our problem, just like everything else with this Sentinel thing. And we'll beat it."

"Pretty hard to, when any random squeal could drive me over the edge," Jim said bitterly.

"I've been doing some thinking about that, Jim," Blair remarked, his scientist's curiosity returning to animate him. "It might have been more than the sound and the tests. Staring up at these florescent lights for the last couple days gave me an idea. I have to look into this, but remember the bank's new security system? I'll make any bet that it uses infrared. Maybe the conjunction of the supersonic and the infrared, both right on the edge of your range. You tried to pick up both of them, stretched too far, and 'snap'."

"Great, so what do we do about it?" He tried to sound resigned, but Blair could hear a hint of excitement. Add to the problem and he became more determined to solve it.

"First we have to figure out if I'm right. Then, well." Blair shrugged. "It shouldn't be too much trouble. I was being honest—this was my doing. If I hadn't given you those tests the night before this probably never would have happened."

"Chief, it's not your fault." Jim spoke softly but assuredly, and with great conviction. "You didn't know."

"And it was even less yours," Blair responded immediately. "Because you couldn't help it."

Jim looked at him sharply and Blair stared back unflinching until his partner folded. "All right, we're both innocent," he agreed with a sigh. Then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Blair's beaming smile. "Why do I feel as if I was manipulated into saying that?"

"Hey, I was just telling the truth here, Jim," Blair protested. "And it worked, didn't it?"

Finally Jim smiled, or at least his jaw lost its grim rigidity. "All right, it did. So, how are we going to tackle this?"

"I'll have to do some more research, figure out precisely what happened, what you experienced. See if there's anything in Burton's research about Sentinels losing control. Maybe there's a ritual to prevent it—"

"I'm not going to sacrifice goats or eat a toad under the full moon, Chief," Jim warned.

"Well, actually..." He grinned at Jim's horrified expression. "Joking, man. Though seriously there might be something, a meditation or whatever. I'll look into it. And perform some..." he trailed off, realizing what he was saying.

"Some tests," Jim completed the sentence for him. "I figured I'd be in line for a few experiments."

"Jim..."

"You just do what you need to do. I'll complain, but I know it helps me in the end. I trust you to look out for me, watch my back like you said, and Blair, you've never let me down. Not once."

And he trusted him even now. After everything that had happened, he still was willing to put himself into Blair's hands, to take the tests and listen to his instructions despite where they had lead him. Still believing in his Guide.

The weight of that responsibility pressed down on him, but it didn't feel like more than he could handle; instead it gave him strength, confidence. Whether or not it actually was deserved, just knowing it was there, direct and unconditional, made the reliance not a burden, not merely commitment, but a gift, treasured. And he could begin to accept that it truly wasn't his doing, that they could beat this yet.

A Sentinel wasn't a superman; a Guide couldn't understand everything. But a Sentinel and a Guide together had no limits.

 

* * *

 

 

Epilogue

Three days later Jim and Blair were back at work. Blair spent most of the drive complaining about his bandages, loudly wondering how synthetic cotton could be so itchy, but once they reached the station he was calm, mature, and helpful. Subtly insinuating himself between Jim and the many cops giving him odd, worried or angry looks as he passed, blocking questions with quick greetings and extraneous commentary. Watching his Sentinel's back.

Jim bristled at first at the implication that he needed protection, but he soon acknowledged that he wouldn't have known how to handle either the looks or the queries and that he lacked Blair's skill of polite verbal parrying. He knew that it would pass, anyway, soon as the next big case came up and the police united against a new target. In the meantime he had to accept his designation as suspicious at best, criminal at worst.

But first he would need to go before the board, not something he was looking forward to. Unfortunately not something Blair could assist him with, either; though the police observer would present his side of the story to them, Jim would face the panel alone, and hope that between the doctors' evidence, police reports, and Simon's testimony, they wouldn't see fit to take his badge.

Even if Blair hadn't needed to give his own observations, Jim would have dragged him along. He needed the moral support, that brazen and unwavering confidence that his partner never failed to supply. In spite of the past week's events.

Last night he had finally managed to pin him down. Blair's question-dodging talents worked in both directions and it took real effort to get past them, especially when he was trying so hard to take an over-and-done-with attitude. The undeniable injury notwithstanding. Jim couldn't conceive how he could write it off, how that trust in his Sentinel could possibly remain steadfast after that, but Blair had only shaken his head impatiently.

"Man, that was entirely my fault. I threw myself in the line of fire when you pulled the trigger. You couldn't have stopped me even if you were thinking straight."

Jim, whose memory of the incident consisted of little more than an torturously loud gunshot and a single flashbulb image of Blair's white face before he fell, had to rely on what he was told. But that didn't prevent him from trying to contradict it, "You were right in front of me, I should have seen it, it never should have happened."

Blair agreed wholeheartedly with that but told him, "Jim, I meant it. I got in the way deliberately. I was sort of hoping the vest would be a little more useful than it was," the doctors had been amazed at the angle of entry; a forensics man had remarked that Sandburg had found about the only way possible to be shot through a kevlar vest and admitted they had to work on the arm holes, "but I chose to take the shot."

"Why?" Jim demanded, frightened by the cool confession, disliking what it could mean.

"Because you were aiming for the SWAT man!" Blair cried, dispelling any other implications. "You had your gun pointed straight at his head, and I know you, you don't miss, even in that kind of situation. It was better for you to shoot me than kill him. I was pretty sure I'd survive it. I knew he wouldn't. Not that I had time to really think that out, but it was instinctual, you know? The Sentinel protects the city and the Guide protects the Sentinel, and if you had killed him..."

No need to complete the sentence, and Blair hadn't bothered, simply allowed Jim to absorb it, comprehend what had been done for him. And at last accept it, because he had no choice, because this was the way it worked and he couldn't change it. Even if he had wanted to.

And now Blair was going in front of the board and telling them something similar, wording it so that it didn't sound so reckless or so devoted, but all the same making it clear that it wasn't Detective Ellison's fault, that his partner was innocent of blame, and verify that he wasn't pressing charges so Jim's record still was clean. Blair came out of the conference room with a grin and a thumb's up, so he must have succeeded.

Jim's own meeting with them was far shorter and less intensive than he expected. Most of the board even seemed sympathetic about his ordeal; Blair's doing, almost definitely. Without specifying what had happened, his partner had explained the entirely accidental nature and Jim came across as an innocent victim of circumstance, neither a criminal nor a lunatic. It was apparent almost from the start that once the formalities had been attended to he would be back on the force without question, Sandburg at his side.

Simon must have had a hand in it, or else he had other channels, because he and Blair both knew the verdict the moment Jim emerged from the meeting. He couldn't help but wince at his captain's crutches but Simon made no comment. Blair folded his arms as best he could around the sling and beamed. "Congratulations, Jim, now when do we get back to work?"  
"Sooner than you'd like," Simon rumbled. "I came down here for a reason. There's something you need to hear." Without explaining he lead them to the elevator and down to an interrogation room, Jim and Blair awkwardly holding with his slower limping pace.

The man inside eyed them jumpily, nervously licking his lips as the captain dismissed the uniformed officer standing guard. Jim frowned at him, trying to place the almost-familiar face.

"The driver," Blair whispered, Sentinel-quiet. "Wasn't he the driver for those bank robbers?"

Placing him, Jim nodded confirmation. Simon approached the man, who cowered back from his intimidating bulk, regardless of the crutches. "Now don't go have a heart attack," the captain requested. "Just tell the detectives here what you told me."

The criminal's muddy eyes darted from Simon to Jim and his tongue ran over his lips again. "If I talk, it goes better, right?" he asked in a quivering, surprisingly deep voice. "And I want privacy, this don't get back to my friends."

"Agreed."

"We were paid to make that hit. They hired us to try to knock over that bank," the man told them. "It had to be that bank, that day. A man gave us ten thousand for it, supplied the cars, the equipment—"

"Tell about the equipment," Simon instructed.

"Yeah, that box, he gave us that," the criminal elucidated, warming to his topic. "He told us to leave it there on. I've used electronics before and I told the boys how to make it work but from what they said it didn't. So they left it behind and running like he asked. That's all I know about it."

"Thanks," said Simon wryly, and they exited, sending in the officer to escort the prisoner back to the holding cell. Once they were gone he turned to his men. "What do you make of that?"

Jim looked at Blair, found agreement. "We were set up. I was set up."

Simon forced air past his teeth in a sharp hiss. "That's what I was hoping you were not going say. It occurred to me the moment I heard, but I thought a cop's paranoia..."

"I've picked that up, then," murmured Blair, "because it was the first thing to cross my mind, too."

"And three makes it official," Jim joined them grimly. "But if we aren't reading too much into this little incident, what does it mean?"

"A test," Blair said, drawing the instant attention of the other two men. Unfazed by their concentration, "That's what it looks like to me, at least. Like my experiments. Pushing Sentinel abilities to the edge."

"But that would mean someone knows—" Simon stopped; Jim could almost see a vision of Lee Brackett reflected in his glasses. The secret was out, somehow, and once the genie was released from the bottle...

"Just what we needed," Blair muttered under his breath, still audible to Jim, "another nefarious, knowledgeable psychopath up to no good."

And with one ridiculous phrase he turned the situation into something manageable, something contained, not a force but an obstacle. And obstacles could always be surmounted. Jim draped a companionable arm across his Guide's healthy shoulder. "All in a day's work, partner. Simon, can we go to the bank and look into this further?"

"Since those were going to be my next orders, I don't have any objections."

"In that case, yessir. Come on, Chief. Let's see how I am at tracking a five-day-old scent."

Blair perked up at that. "You think it's possible, man? Even after cleaners have been over it?"

"Only one way to be sure." He held the door for his partner, who passed by chattering eagerly on about proper impetus and odor retentive surfaces, sling and bandages for the moment forgotten.

His injury wouldn't be completely healed for some time yet, and there were deeper wounds still untreated. But for now they had other matters to handle, new tasks to accomplish, and Sentinel and Guide sallied forth into the world again, together prepared for whatever would come.


End file.
